​And then you dreamt you saw a shooting star for the very first time in your whole life, so you immediately closed your eyes and his face appeared beneath your eyelids as if it was painted there, as if it never left your mind all these years later, and you hope the shooting star gets you, just knows what it is–or who it is–you’re fervently wishing for, and then you remember that the very first poem you ever wrote was because of him and about how both him and stars are millions and billions of miles out of reach – but then you wake up and you realize its still the same after all this time, and you realize the shooting star was a dream, but you wish, still, you wish and you hope and you love a star from afar.


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